Page 92 of Specters & Spotlights

Graham didn’t look away.

And with the word out loud, he realized something with a strange, almost resigned clarity: regardless of what did or didn’t ever happen between him and Elise, he had crossed a line he couldn’t uncross.

From this point forward, he would always fall into the category of guy who believes in ghosts.

Lark didn’t give him time to shape his answer into something more articulate.

“Good,” she said, clipped. “You should.”

The word landed with an edge Graham couldn’t quite name. Approval, yes—but threaded through with something that looked uncomfortably like resentment. Like the fact that he’d offered Elise belief so easily was its own offense. Her mouth tightened, and her eyes flicked away as if she regretted letting him see that much.

Graham’s attention caught on it—on her tone, on the quick fracture in her composure.

Lark noticed.

Her gaze snapped back to him, sharp, and whatever vulnerability had been hovering in the room shut down like a light switch. She turned toward the door and reached for the knob.

“No,” she said, already twisting it. “There’s nothing you can do for me.”

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way she said them—final, scornful, a dismissal wrapped in velvet. A clear directive: leave my bubble.

Graham didn’t argue. He stepped back instinctively, letting the door swing open.

The hallway’s fluorescent glare felt too bright after the warm, smoky hush inside. He crossed the threshold, and Lark started to close the door again as if sealing herself back into place.

Then she paused.

Her hand stayed on the knob. Her voice dropped, lower than before—enough that it felt like she was saying it despite herself.

“But…” She held his gaze for a beat that sharpened into something almost warning. “Keep an eye on Elise.”

Graham’s stomach tightened.

“What does that mean?” he started, but Lark had already moved, the door sliding toward the frame.

She didn’t elaborate. The door clicked shut, and Graham found himself staring at it longer than made sense.

The conversation replayed in his head in uneven fragments—her questions, his answer, the way she’d pivoted on a dime and turned him back into an outsider. Most of his exchanges with Lark felt like that: a whirlwind he was never fully in control of. Like stepping onto a moving platform and pretending it was solid ground.

Still… he was more certain than ever that something was wrong with her.

Not just “Lark is in a mood” wrong. Not just “two-show day fatigue” wrong. Something deeper.

He couldn’t force her to let him help. He knew that. He didn’t even know what help would look like. But the thought of walking away without offering anything didn’t sit right.

He leaned toward the door, keeping his voice low, as if volume could make it less intrusive. “If there’s anything I can do,” he said, measured, “just ask.”

He paused, listening for any sign she’d heard him. Nothing. Only the steady hum of the hallway lights, the distant movement of the company resetting for the next show.

Graham straightened.

Then he turned and strode down the corridor, already reaching for the fasteners on Darcy’s coat, already shifting back into the practical rhythms of getting out of costume—something he could control.

Chapter Seventeen

Elise

Elise stood in her usual place, removing the last of the sticky spirit gum from Isla Kent’s lace front, her hands steady from muscle memory even as her thoughts wandered. It had been a long two-show day. Her phone rested beside the bobby pins—still no new messages. Just Cici’s earlier text, glowing faintly like an omen.